The Preacher's Bride

by Jody Hedlund

  Chapter

  18

  Agony churned in Elizabeth’s stomach. The day was almost over and she’d yet to say good-bye.

  She straightened the kink in her back and glanced up from the gooseberry bush. Her gaze traveled around the yard, making a count of the children. She passed over John leaning against the doorframe of his forge. But then she looked back and her heart flipped. He had narrowed his eyes upon her and was chewing on a long piece of grass.

  How long had he been watching her?

  She wanted to squirm and at the very least smooth the loose hairs back under her coif. Instead, she turned away and reached back into the bush, hoping he wouldn’t notice the sudden quiver of her hands.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him push away from the shack. He tossed the sliver of grass to the ground and started across the yard toward her.

  She ducked her head, glad for the wide hat that hid the heat in her face.

  “Are there many left?” Behind her his voice was low.

  She leaned into the thickly set branches. “This will be the last picking.”

  The gooseberry bushes tangled with the hedgerows along the edges of the cottage plot and separated the Costins’ from the neighbors’. Johnny and Betsy had helped her harvest the first ripenings, but now their hands couldn’t reach past the sharp spines for the last of the crop. So she’d given them the task of cleaning the cow’s pen and transporting her droppings to the garden to mix into the soil for the winter.

  Elizabeth plucked the fuzzy green cluster brushing against her fingertips.

  The intensity of John’s gaze on her back sent a rush of warmth through her blood.

  “I’m sorry about the attack, Elizabeth. When I find out who is responsible, first I’ll beat up his face, then when I’m done with his face, I’ll take a whip to his back.”

  “ ’Tis not God’s way to seek revenge. ’Tis not our Puritan way either.”

  “Methinks it will not be revenge. It will be the discipline he needs for his evil deeds.” His voice hinted at humor, and when she glanced over her shoulder, he wore a half grin.

  Her heart flipped upside down.

  “You’re a hard worker, Elizabeth.”

  “ ’Tis nothing less than God desires.” His praise warmed her and strangely added to the turbulence that had rumbled through her soul all day.

  He knelt beside her and reached into the gooseberry bush. The thin linen of his shirt pulled taut across his arms—the same arms that had carried her up the stairs of her home and cradled her so tenderly.

  She tore her gaze away from him and focused straight ahead. Her fingers fumbled to find another berry.

  “Mary was never very strong.” He stretched his arm deeper into the spiky branches.

  Surprise jolted her, and the cluster at her fingertips slipped away. Would he speak to her of his late wife?

  He stared into the thick hedge, his brow furrowed, his eyes filled with pain.

  “She always struggled to accomplish anything.” His voice grew tight, and he stumbled over his words. “When I started preaching, I had to be gone longer. And this left her with more to do than she could handle. She grew weaker.”

  Elizabeth sat back on her heels and savored the wonder of the situation . . . John Costin was baring his soul to her.

  “I knew if I stopped, I could help her more, but she wouldn’t let me. She said it was God’s purpose for me, that he had gifted me in a great way, that I must do His will even if it meant more hardship for her.”

  “She was indeed a godly woman.”

  He nodded and took a deep breath. “After the baby was born, she couldn’t regain the little strength she had left. She was just too frail.”

  He fell silent.

  Mary’s song to Thomas drifted through the branches of the ripening apple tree. The sweetness of the girl’s voice tugged at the strong thread of compassion woven through every fiber of Elizabeth’s body.

  She gazed at the wrinkled fabric of John’s sleeve. Did she dare reach out and touch him, to show him she truly cared? Her hand twitched, but she couldn’t seem to make it move.

  For a long moment they both sat motionless. Finally Elizabeth peeked again at John. He stared unseeingly ahead.

  Her mind reeled. He’d unburdened his soul to her, and she had to say something. “Some are more fit for heaven than for this life. And no matter what we do to help them, therewith God brings them home to Him. He desires them more than we do.”

  As if sensing her gaze, he turned to her, his eyes dull with grief and guilt. “I did not wish her to be one of those more fit for heaven.” His voice was low and raw.

  Elizabeth nodded.

  He jabbed his fingers through his wind-tossed hair and shook his head. “You are strong, though, Elizabeth. And you will do well.”

  “Do well?”

  “You will do well as a wife.”

  Elizabeth ducked her head. Why was he talking to her about this now?

  “If I were to marry again,” he continued, digging into the mound of gooseberries in the basket. He lifted his hand and let the berries slide through his fingers. “I would choose someone like you this time.”

  Her heart lurched to a stop. Like her? Truly? Irresistibly, her gaze lifted to his.

  “I know not when I will remarry—if ever.” His eyes lit up with warmth but also crinkled at the corners with firmness. “I am too busy to concern myself with such matters right now. My focus is solely on the work of God.”

  She swallowed hard, trying to push down her rising anticipation.

  “But if I ever needed to find a wife, I would favor a woman of your strength and diligence, as well as your honest and pure heart. And you have a way with the children . . .”

  Something unspoken in his eyes reached out to her, as if he were asking her something he knew he shouldn’t. Was he asking her to wait for him?

  Her heart fluttered back to life and propelled forward in spurts. He couldn’t be. ’Twas only her imaginings.

  He didn’t linger for her response. He pushed himself off the ground and ambled back to his forge.

  She could only stare after him, speechless and more confused than ever.

  * * *

  By the time she reached home that evening, her father and Henry had already made the loaves, molded them, and set them to their last rise.

  She wasn’t surprised to find Samuel waiting inside, watching her father and Henry filling the oven with the gorse, preparing to fire it up to the high temperature needed for baking the bread.

  “I was just on my way to get you,” Samuel said.

  “ ’Twas no need, Samuel.” There never had been. But she hadn’t been able to convince him of that, and now it was over.

  Was it over, though?

  She stood in the doorway and dragged in a deep breath of the rising yeast.

  Trepidation besieged her anew, as it had all day. She had considered her surrender to Samuel’s wishes permanent. Hadn’t she given him her word that today would be her last day at the Costins’? Even though she hadn’t said good-bye to the children, she couldn’t let that dissuade her from doing what she knew she must.

  She must marry Samuel Muddle.

  And yet at the sight of his bulky frame taking up space in the middle of the bakehouse, she could think only of John, his intense blue eyes, which clouded with the depth of his passions but also cleared to sparkle with mischief. His entire being radiated energy and power. When he spoke, or worked, or even when he was just thinking, he was fervent and alive and interesting.

  She couldn’t deny Samuel was a good man. He had a kind heart and had always treated her with utmost consideration. But compared to John, Samuel was like flat bread—bland and lifeless. Could she partake of him the rest of her life, now that she had nibbled on a different kind of relationship—a relationship with a man like John Costin, full of rich texture and flavor—like rising bread?

  John had told her she would do well as a wife, that he
would choose someone like her, that he favored her strength and diligence. He liked her purity and the way she cared for his children. She had been mulling his words over and over, and the pleasure of them warmed her insides.

  Had she been wrong to assume the only man who would want her was Samuel? If John Costin would have someone like her, then surely other men would want her too. After all, didn’t Sister Norton tell her she was an attractive girl and to give herself more esteem?

  In a secret place inside her heart, she had tucked away the notion that maybe, just maybe, Sister Norton had been right about the other things too. Maybe she was growing to care about John. And perchance he would eventually learn to think about another woman besides his wife. He wouldn’t always be too busy with his ministry. Surely one day he would have time for another marriage.

  “Now that you’re home, perhaps you could help me convince Father to let me begin housekeeping for the Costins on the morrow.” Catherine scraped the leftover dough into the trough. “He must have someone to help him. Why not me?”

  “Shush, Catherine. It’s too dangerous.” Jane whisked the dough into some water, making yeast for the next day’s bread. “Besides, think about Elizabeth. It must have been a difficult day saying good-bye to the children.”

  “I shall be on my way,” Samuel said as he settled his hat onto his head. “I want to speak to Vicar Burton this evening about posting the banns.”

  “I didn’t say good-bye to the children.” The words blurted from her mouth before she could stop them.

  Samuel’s hand froze on his hat.

  Everyone but her father turned to look at her. He continued poking at the gorse with his pitchfork.

  “I couldn’t say good-bye.”

  “You’ll see them again,” said Catherine. “It’s not like you’re sailing to America.”

  “I’m sorry, Samuel.” Elizabeth stepped toward him.

  First his eyebrows lifted in confusion, and then they came together in a dark scowl.

  “I don’t want to say good-bye to the Costins. Not yet.”

  His eyes filled with hurt. “So you’re choosing him.”

  “I’m not choosing him. I’m not choosing you. I’m not choosing anyone. I’m just not ready to say good-bye.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have given you another day.”

  “She shouldn’t have had any days to begin with,” Catherine mumbled.

  “If you go back, then I won’t marry you.”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath and released her fear. “Very well, Samuel. If that’s how you feel, then that’s how it must be.”

  Catherine gasped. “Elizabeth!”

  “I don’t have peace about putting an end to the Lord’s call. Perchance He has more work for me there. I cannot leave them yet.”

  “Fine.” Samuel turned and stomped toward the door.

  “Hold on now, Samuel, my boy.” Her father tapped the handle of his pitchfork against the floor.

  Samuel stopped and faced her father. Hurt and anger shifted across his features.

  “There are too many elders who agree with Brother Costin that my Elizabeth should continue. Samuel, my boy, I cannot oppose them and gain their reproach. Ye know that, don’t ye now?”

  Samuel’s scowl deepened into a pout. “They’ll do anything for him. He convinces them to do whatever he asks. And now I’ll look like the fool.”

  “Samuel, my boy, what if the Lord’s hand is keeping her there longer? How can we meddle with that?”

  For a long moment Samuel rubbed his hands on his beard, his gaze fixed on her father.

  “Can ye wait for my Elizabeth, my daughter?”

  Finally Samuel turned and looked at her, hurt still filling his eyes. “How much longer, Elizabeth? When will you be done with the Costins?”

  “I must stay as long as I am needed.” Was this truly God’s answer to her prayers? Was His hand keeping her there? She could only pray it wasn’t merely her emotions from the day.

  “Will you give me a time, a day, anything?”

  “I can’t.”

  “I won’t wait—not without a date.” He huffed then turned again.

  “Hold on, Samuel, my boy. Hold on,” her father boomed. “If ye cannot wait for my Elizabeth, then perhaps ye will be happy taking another of my daughters to wife.”

  Samuel’s back stiffened. He stopped and slowly turned around.

  No! Her mind shouted the word. But she couldn’t make her lips work to say it.

  “What about my Catherine there? She would make a good wife for ye, wouldn’t she?”

  Catherine gasped and shook her head. “No, Father—”

  His stern look silenced her.

  Samuel’s gaze alighted on Catherine, and his eyebrows lifted.

  “My Catherine is younger, but she has been speaking of marriage and has been eager for it.”

  Dismay widened Catherine’s eyes.

  Elizabeth knew she ought to say something to thwart her father’s plan, anything to keep from losing Samuel to Catherine. But she stepped back against the wall and let the shadows of the room swallow her.

  Samuel took in Catherine’s fresh young beauty. His eyes widened.

  Catherine shook her head, but again their father stopped her with one look.

  Elizabeth’s heartbeat crashed against her ribs. Surely Samuel would not give her up so easily?

  “Think on it, Samuel, my boy. And if ye want to marry my Catherine in place of my Elizabeth, then I will give ye my permission and blessing.”

  Chapter

  19

  Haven’t I served thee well?” Elizabeth prayed. “Haven’t I tried to do thy will?”

  Her petticoat was damp from kneeling in the long grass wet with dew. But she bowed her head regardless. The dampness was the least of her concerns that Sabbath.

  “Will thou not show me thy favor?” she whispered. After all she had done and was doing for God, surely He would bless her. Didn’t Scripture promise He would work all things for the good of those who love Him?

  “Be thou with me today, Lord.”

  The faint call of her name wafted through the early morning, but she kept her head bowed.

  She oft struggled to find a solitary place. In her sanctuary in the garden, amongst the herbs, she was alone, and she especially needed the time this morn.

  Each time she thought of having to stand up in front of the congregation and defend herself from the rumors, embarrassment and humiliation washed through her anew. She could speak about anything else, easily defend herself against anyone. But to speak of intimate relations, adultery, fornication—her face flamed just thinking about it.

  She understood why people looked the other way when she walked by and refused to greet her or do business with her. Some said she was John’s mistress, others said she was his wife—that secretly she’d married him when Mary was alive, that he’d had two wives at one time. Other rumors claimed Thomas was her babe, born of her womb, and that John had seeded other bastard children from her too.

  “Lord, I need your strength. I cannot do this on my own.”

  Again she heard her name, louder this time.

  She lifted her head and opened her eyes. A common blue butterfly flittered around the pink flowers of the hyssop her mother had planted many years before. In the sunshine of the early morning, the plain blue on the butterfly’s upper wings looked almost lavender. It landed and folded its wings into their upright position, giving her a full view of the beautiful underside—the white-ringed black spots that contrasted with the brilliant orange marks near its edge.

  Was she more like a butterfly than she had given herself credit? She’d always thought of herself as a moth. But maybe she was more like the common blue—ordinary, perhaps even plain from outward aspects. And yet from another view, deeper in, was she complex and colorful?

  “Elizabeth!” Anne rounded the side of the bakehouse. The urgency in the girl’s voice prodded Elizabeth to her feet.

  “There was a fire.
”

  “A fire? Where?” Her heartbeat slammed to a halt. Please, Lord, not the Costins.

  Anne sucked in a shaky breath. “The thatcher’s wife is dead.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The old man who rescued you last week. The place where we found you after the attack. His cottage burned to the ground.”

  Elizabeth’s insides collapsed. “And his wife is dead?”

  “Killed in the fire.”

  She stared at Anne’s pale face and tried to make sense of what the girl was saying. The Costins were safe, but her relief evaporated in the heat of sudden fear.

  “Did you see the thatcher?” Her heart thudded. “Do they know who started the fire?”

  Anne shook her head. “The neighbors are claiming it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Oh no.” With growing horror she pictured the switch coming toward the thatcher’s face, his bare hands yanking it from the cocky young man on the horse. The man’s ominous warning that the thatcher would pay for his insolence echoed through her head.

  “You think it was him, Elizabeth, the man who hurt you?”

  “It had to be.”

  Elizabeth covered her face with her hands and wanted to groan. If indeed her attacker had taken revenge upon the old thatcher and his kind wife, then she was at fault. She had exposed them to the danger.

  “I must go.” The ache in her heart pushed her toward the bakehouse. “I need to see for myself.”

  Her father had already prohibited her from delivering the Sabbath bread today. Now with the news of the murder, she persuaded him to let her go, but only in the company of Henry.

  “Henry, this cannot be.” She pulled her brother-in-law to a stop in front of the low blackened walls of the thatcher’s cottage. The chimney had crumbled into a pile of stones on the hearth, and a charred kettle sat alone among the smoking ashes.

  Her throat tightened.

  “I need to find out what happened,” she said hoarsely.

  Henry mumbled under his breath but accompanied her to the neighbor’s cottage—its roof torn away, likely in an effort to prevent it from catching the floating sparks of the burning cottage next door.